


Muse

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Time travel and other twists [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Photographer, F/M, Gen, Road Trips, Tourism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22751170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: Brienne is a photographer. Jaime is her muse.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Time travel and other twists [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1305521
Comments: 25
Kudos: 96





	Muse

**BRIENNE**

**

The first school holidays after - after the accident, Brienne and her father went on a trip far, far away. 

“There are too many memories, just now,” her father said. “Let’s get away from Tarth and the Stormlands.” 

His hands caressed the expensive camera in his lap, folded into its old, black leather case. He loved to take photographs; every time they went on holiday, he always took hundreds of pictures of cities and sunsets and birds and the coastline, and always, always pictures of Mama and the babies, of Galladon and Brienne.

They took the ferry to Storm’s End, where they hired a car and Brienne screwed her eyes tightly shut and stabbed her finger down on the map – 

“Lannisport,” her father said. “I’ve never been to the Westerlands. They say the coastline is very beautiful. What do you think we’ll see there?”

Brienne looked down at the map: at exotic-sounding names like the Golden Tooth, and Feastfires, and Casterly Rock. “The sun sinking into the Sunset Sea,” she breathed, her eyes shining with wonder. “The ships crowding into Lannisport harbour. The rains weeping over the halls of Castamere.” 

Her father laughed. “You’ve got the bug all right,” he said. “Here.” He pressed a small camera into her hands. “Let’s see if you’ve got the eye.” 

** 

They drove to King’s Landing first, which was the biggest city Brienne had ever seen. She took countless photographs of the rebuilt Red Keep, of the ruins of the Dragonpit, of the ancient walls and red-roofed houses leading down to Blackwater Bay. 

Then they took the Kingsroad north into the Riverlands, where they stopped at the vast mirror-like lake called the Gods Eye and took a ferry to the Isle of Faces, where rank upon rank of ghostly white weirwood trees stood, faces carved into their trunks. Then they toured the ancient ruined fortress of Harrenhal, so vast that it dwarfed Evenfall Hall on Tarth and even the Red Keep. 

They went north to the Trident, where Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had fallen long ago, the rubies from his breastplate scattered into the great river, and then followed the Red Fork to Riverrun in time to see the red-stone fortress of the Tullys bathed in perfect sunset light. 

Brienne’s eyes shone as she took shot after perfect shot, and when the light finally faded she let out a wistful sigh. 

From Riverrun they followed the Riverroad up, up into the high hills, towards the narrow pass and the mountain-side fortress called the Golden Tooth. The road was long and winding, and every now and then they stopped at vantage points to photograph the vast sweeping expanse of steep valleys and ancient hollows, the shadows of the clouds in the grey-blue sky scudding over the landscape and adding rich texture to their shots. 

Then down, down they went into what were once the lands of House Reyne. Storm clouds gathered and it began to rain as they drove into the visitor’s carpark at what was once the mighty fortress of Castamere; the sullen grey sky was a perfect backdrop for such a lonely and desolate place. Even now, a great crimson banner emblazoned with the golden lion of House Lannister flew triumphantly over the ruins – 

_Lord Tywin Lannister ordered the golden lion to be flown over the ruined halls in perpetuity,_ the tour guide said. _So that all men might see and be reminded of his victory._

Brienne took one perfect shot that afternoon: a lone fall of sunlight illuminating the rippling crimson banner, the gold lion clawing at the grey sky over centuries-old devastation.

The road continued directly south-west from Castamere to Casterly Rock. They saw the great fortress long before they drew near; it was so unimaginably vast that it towered over the landscape, and Brienne could understand why the men of the Westerlands called it simply The Rock. 

In the hazy sunset light, it did almost look like a lion in repose. 

Finally they drew closer and closer to the coast, and they stopped here and there to admire the landscape and stretch their legs. But always the great Rock towered over them, and the road stretched out before them, heading only in one direction. 

They drew into Lannisport just as the sun was beginning its descent into the west. Her father had pre-booked accommodation at a modest hotel near the harbour; once they had checked in and freshened up they went down to the waterfront to wander along the restaurants and cafes, and they sat down to an extravagantly priced meal and watched the sun sink into the Sunset Sea in a blaze of crimson and gold.

**

The next day, Brienne saw The Boy. 

Her father had driven them up to the great cliffs near Casterly Rock, overlooking the seething green waters hundreds of metres below. Brienne had wandered off a little, her eyes drawn by the wild coastline, when she heard the sound of laughter – giggling girls, and the deeper sound of boys taunting and boasting and egging each other on. 

Intrigued, she drifted over to see what was going on. 

A crowd of boys and girls in old-fashioned costumes – was someone shooting a movie? – was clustered around a beautiful golden-haired boy in a crimson and gold tunic, his smile bright and charismatic, his laughter bright and reckless. By his side was a girl, his mirror image in feminine form, no less bright and charismatic, but her beauty sharper – 

Almost instinctively, Brienne brought her camera up and snapped a photo of them, twin golden suns around which the others orbited. Fascinated, she drew closer, wanting to know who the boy and girl were, ensnared by their effortless confidence. 

_Go on, Jaime!_ she heard one of the gathered crowd say. _I dare you!_

The boy – Jaime – threw his head back and laughed. _Will you kiss me if I do?_ he asked the girls, who all eagerly agreed. 

_Watch me, then!_ Jaime said. 

He took a running leap, and then with a bright, reckless smile launched himself off the edge of the cliff – 

Brienne captured every glorious moment – the bright golden boy leaping into the blue, blue sky, wild and free. 

** 

Her father took her back up to the cliffs the next day, and the next, in search of the mysterious golden boy, to no avail. 

She remembered that he had been wearing a crimson and gold tunic, and even wondered if she might find him at Casterly Rock – if she should just simply knock on the door and ask for Jaime – but the castle was closed to visitors, and besides, her father said, they had to check out of their hotel and be on their way. 

“You’ll see him again, one day,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

**

Had she made the trip up to the castle that day, had she knocked on the huge oaken doors reinforced with iron and asked for Jaime, she would have met a very different boy. 

**

**JAIME**

**

Jaime Lannister stared curiously up at a series of photographs on the wall: 

Himself, aged 12 or so, leaping off the cliffs at Casterly Rock. _The Leap_ , the exhibition booklet called it; taken at Casterly Rock twenty-three years ago. It was the first of the photographer’s many images of her golden muse. 

Himself, as he had been at 17, seated on the Iron Throne in a soiled white cloak. The unknown photographer had caught his thousand yard stare – as a moody black and white image, it was horribly powerful. 

Himself, in his early 20s, in bed – curled protectively around a golden-haired woman, his hand tracing her pregnant – _Gods above, was that Cersei?!_

“You see why Father was so concerned,” Tyrion said beside him. 

Jaime stared up at himself in horror. 

“It gets worse,” Tyrion warned him. “Not the one where you win some kind of tournament in golden armour – I rather liked that one – but as you get into your 30s, it looks like you go off to war and are taken prisoner –”

“Tyrion, I swear –” Jaime began.

“– and then there’s one where your right hand gets chopped off –”

Jaime looked down at both his hands. 

“I think I’ve seen quite enough,” he said faintly. “You don’t need to show me any more.”

A painfully skinny black-clad woman, peering knowledgeably at the photographs, glanced sideways at Jaime and did a double-take. “Excuse me,” she said, “are you…?”

“No,” Jaime said curtly. “I’m not.” 

Tyrion laughed, then cut himself off hastily, trying to look grave. “I’m sorry, brother,” he said, “but the resemblance is –”

“Yes.” Jaime glanced up again at the first image of himself, leaping into the blue sky. He’d always wanted to try the ancient cliff-jump, but had never quite gathered up the courage. “But I’m afraid I don’t quite measure up to my photographic self,” he said lightly, strolling along the line of photographs with deliberate casualness. “I can’t say I’ve ever –”

He bumped into a woman staring up at the last image in the sequence. 

“Why a bear?” he asked faintly. 

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “No matter how hard I try, I can only ever catch incomplete glimpses –”

Her voice trailed off. 

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” 

**

**Author's Note:**

> I have deliberately not gone too deeply into the implications, because thinking too deeply about time travel makes my head hurt.
> 
> DVD extra - If Brienne had a polaroid camera that day on the cliffs, and if she'd been confident enough to approach Jaime, she might have handed him a photo of himself, young and golden. Had she gone to the museum (in the Hall of Heroes? At the Red Keep?) she might have seen that same polaroid photo, but centuries older - and the subject of considerable scholarly debate.


End file.
